


The Haven from Hemingway

by SunlitGarden



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Blossom Manor, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Literal Sleeping Together, Party, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:21:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22739503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunlitGarden/pseuds/SunlitGarden
Summary: Jughead's trying to be covert and change in one of the Blossom manor's rooms before sneaking back to work, only for a gorgeous blonde named Betty to break into the room seeking sanctuary from the party guests.
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 34
Kudos: 127
Collections: 7th Bughead Fanfiction Awards - Nominees, Fall in Love with Riverdale: A Valentine's Event





	The Haven from Hemingway

**Author's Note:**

  * For [satelliteinasupernova](https://archiveofourown.org/users/satelliteinasupernova/gifts).



> As an elf, I am proud to present this fic for satelliteinasupernova to thank her for her wonderful contributions to this fandom. This fic is inspired by her piece found [here](https://satelliteinasupernova.tumblr.com/post/185940255604/au-concept-jughead-finds-himself-dragged-to-a). Thanks to @bettycooper aka Cat and @theheavycrown aka Sarah for their super sweet beta-ing and friendship and @bugggghead aka Katie for helping me pick which art to work with! ^-^

Panic thrums hard and fast through Jughead's veins as he hurries through the buttons on his shirt. He can’t believe the publisher is actually interested in his work. It’s amazing that a nicely tailored suit was enough to fool someone from this world into thinking he was worth their investment. Heaven knows if he introduced himself as _Jughead_ they would’ve laughed in his face.

But Forsythe? _Forsythe_ was one of them, a person of society and the third of his name.

Unfortunately, _Jughead_ has to finish his shift without being apprehended for changing in a guest bathroom and “pushing his own agenda” as his boss, Penny, would call it.

Someone tries the door handle in the attached bedroom, but he’s not too worried about it—he locked himself in.

_Click. Click. Scrape. Click._

The door handle jiggles once more, mimicking a horror movie moment. Genre masters like Hitchcock, King, and Poe must’ve visited a creepy mansion like Thornhill to get their inspiration. He wouldn’t put it past the Blossoms to have some creepy relative living in the walls.

 _It’s probably just ghosts_ , he reasons, _or a really drunk guest_.

Two more clicks echo through the empty room before the door slams open with a pale female arm attached to it. He sucks in his scream as the girl falls the rest of the way in. She shuts the door and fastens the lock with such intense focus that he almost misses the gleaming trail of tears on her cheeks.

“Um–”

Mystery Blonde pierces him with an alarmed look and goes so ramrod straight he wonders if she wants to throw herself out the window just as badly as he does at the moment. There are bobby pins in her hand, and he realizes she must’ve somehow magically used those to break in instead of searching for the key, like a common thief—like him.

“I can just–I can leave,” he rambles, trying not to make eye contact. It’ll be better if she doesn’t recognize him.

Biting her lip, the woman nods once before gathering her skirts and crawling onto the bed.

This doesn’t seem like the kind of bedroom he’d imagine for a woman like her.

Not that he does a lot of imagining gorgeous women in bedrooms, but he is human and a writer so it has crossed his mind on occasion. Someone like her with fluffy blonde hair and a shimmery blue top should have a pastel bedroom. Light pink sheets. Cream wallpaper. Maybe some throw pillows and a really poofy comforter she can wrap herself in while she drinks tea and writes in her planner.

His mind is getting away from him. It’s just bizarre to see someone so soft and sensual in a room as gothic as this. The foreboding sense that she’s a haunted heroine makes him antsy to course-correct and find her a nice young man or business to run so she can enter a Hallmark movie instead of a Grimm adventure.

Slinging one arm through his suspenders, he tries to remind himself that she’s not his problem. Unfastening the lock, he mulls over his current predicament, trying to figure out if he should cut his losses altogether or comfort a crying woman when he hears Penny’s muffled grumbling as she works her way through the halls.

Trapped in a suspender sling situation, he flips the lock back and waits. Unfortunately, it seems as though Penny is casing the room across from theirs.

Dread weighs his feet like slow-hardening cement as he drags himself farther into the room.

“I can’t leave.”

The woman looks slightly disoriented. The way the color of her eyes fractures into blues and greens makes his throat feel tight. Normally, he doesn’t notice something as inconsequential as the color of someone’s eyes. He prefers to try and read people’s minds through the so-called _windows of the soul_ , find out if they’re lying, impressed, nervous, or interested in someone across the room. Delving into the reason a beautiful stranger is having a breakdown while he’s amidst his own personal crisis seems a bit too invasive.

“I can’t leave because my boss is out there, and if she knows I talked to the guests— let alone changed in the bathroom so I could pass myself off as one of them—I’m dead.”

“You’re not a guest?” The huskiness of emotion makes her voice sound sexier than Jughead anticipated. The fact that he keeps noticing how attractive she is makes him want to strangle himself with his suspenders.

“No.”

“Why did you want to talk to them?”

 _Them_. As if her angelic glow isn’t part of whatever silver spoon-fed life she’s led.

“It doesn’t matter. It’ll probably blow up in my face anyway.”

With a tense shrug, she scoots up on the bed and wipes her cheeks. “Cheryl will sabotage anything and anyone. You might as well hide here with me until your boss leaves.”

“Did Cheryl do something to you?” The woman scoffs. “I’ll take that as a yes. Thanks, by the way.” He sits on the far side of the bed and grabs the tissue box on the nightstand. “So if you’re a guest, why are you hanging around in one of the spare rooms instead of going home to get out of Blossom territory?”

“Because my supposed best friend is too busy hooking up to answer their phone, and if I went with the person I was abandoned with here, then I’d have to be stuck in a car with someone I hate. I could hot-wire their ride, I guess, but—”

Jughead sputters out a laugh. “I’m sorry, what?”

She crumples the tissue and widens her giant doe eyes, the very image of indignant innocence. “I didn’t _do_ it, though it’d serve him right for being so insufferable. I’d rather spend three hours working on his car than ten minutes enduring his condescension about how he’s the next Ernest Hemingway, and I wouldn’t understand his genius since I’m too _Sweet Valley High_.”

Jughead can’t imagine what would possess someone to underestimate her like that. “The next Hemingway? That’s high praise... for himself.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” she mutters, fussing with the blankets. “Anyway, you probably don’t want to hear about my problems.”

“I don’t mind.” He lays out, careful not to accidentally knock her with his elbow while he props himself up. “Is he why you were upset?”

“Sort of. No.” Her teeth worry her bottom lip. “It doesn’t matter,” she says, echoing his earlier sentiment.

They sit in comfortable silence for a few seconds. He’s pretty sure it does matter, but he doesn’t want to impose on her any more than he already has. “For what it’s worth, I think Hemingway is overrated.”

She giggles and nudges him with her knee. “Thanks. Don’t tell me I’m stuck with another pretentious writer.”

“Guilty as charged.” He clears his throat, embarrassed.

“What do you write?”

“Nothing good.”

She smacks his thigh, and it thrusts his heart into overdrive. “You’re being modest.”

He rubs his thumbs under his suspenders for something to do with his hands while he smiles at his lap. “Unlike that guy.”

“You’re a much better listener, too,” she muses, eyes sparkling kindly. “What’s your name?”

“Jughead.” It’s stupid of him to give her that particular name, but he can’t imagine saying anything else in this strangely intimate situation.

She smiles, her cheeks still rosy with emotion. “Nice to meet you, Jughead. I’m Betty.”

“The pleasure’s all mine.” All it takes is a few more seconds of eye contact (okay, sometimes their gazes seem to dip down to each other’s lips) before he completely loses sight of why he’s there tonight. “If you’re not riding home with Hemingway, do you need a lift? I mean, after my shift, if you live in the area I could probably drop you off or something. We could meet around back so my boss and the Blossoms don’t see us sneaking off together. I only have the bike, though, so,” he glances at her blue top that comes down on one side in gown-inspired ruffles, “We might have to get creative with tying that up so it doesn’t get caught, unless you happen to have brought a spare shirt.”

“Funnily enough, I didn’t think to pack a bag.”

“Right. Makes sense.” He clears his throat. “I’m wearing—that is, I have a spare t-shirt if you prefer to go that route.”

Her gaze wanders down the buttons on his shirt, her teeth clipping onto her bottom lip. “That’s really kind of you to offer, Jughead. I might take you up on that.”

As heavy footfall passes outside their door, Jughead feels like he holds his breath, but the moment passes. Betty’s eyes snap back to his, and she snuggles further down on the pillow, batting her still-dewy, but drying, eyelashes at him.

“What’s your least favorite Hemingway story?”

“Where do I start?” he chuckles, scooting down. “In high school, we had to do this project…”

He’s not sure how time slips away so easily, but something about Betty makes him feel comfortable and at ease despite the very real job he’s supposed to be at least pretending to do. Even though he knows he should be checking the hall to see if he can get out, he’s far too engaged in conversation to motivate himself to leave.

She wriggles parts of his story out of him, and he gets hers in return. As they keep talking, she nuzzles close and rubs her arms. He doesn’t even hesitate before snuggling her into his embrace, trying not to think too much of it when she plays with his suspenders.

Words get heavier. As he shows her a clip on his phone of a film she _has_ to see (maybe he can show her the whole thing someday), she lays her head on his shoulder, warm and wonderful and sweet.

They wake up with a start as someone jiggles the handle to the room.

For a moment, panic bubbles up and makes him feel sick, but Betty’s curious gaze reminds him they’re holding each other. Immediately, the world goes quiet again.

Their connection feels like it has to be part of a dream. He’s never spooned anybody like this before, and he certainly didn’t plan on risking his job over the opportunity to do so. No one woman could be as perfect as Betty Cooper is, and if she is, why would she be interested in _Jughead Jones_ , let alone a Serpent Prince?

“I’m sorry you never got back to the party,” she says quietly, playing with his shirt collar. Before he can fully process what’s happening, she opens his shirt, which had been unbuttoned in the night, and smiles at the _S_ shirt she sees underneath. “Thanks for saving me.”

Still processing at half-speed, he wipes the slight bit of drool he feels on his lip and manages a gruff, sleepy, “Any time, Betty.”

“I feel like I should do something to make up for the fact you’ll probably be in trouble with your boss because of me. You want me to talk to them?”

“No.” He still has a shot at getting what he needs from Blossom manor to make it up to Penny. Besides, he’s glad he ended up spending his evening the way he did. Betty winds around him in her warmth and silk, and after last night, it’s probably not so crazy to think they can see each other again. “Maybe you could have dinner with me? Er, breakfast? Any meal, really,” he blurts out, still too dazed to worry about being embarrassed. “I’ll settle for a power bar if you’re busy.”

“I’m not busy,” she assures him, biting on a smile.

“Okay.” His insides flutter with excitement and something that might even border on giddiness.

“We should probably leave before they find us in a compromising—”

The door snaps open as a sharp voice pierces the room. “If so much as a candlestick is missing, I’m burning down the guest and servant houses until they surrender it.” Frozen, they cling to each other, only turning slightly when a whirlwind of a human being storms in— shockingly red lips parting in awe. “Betty?” Her gaze slides over Jughead, upper lip twitching in mild horror. “What is this hobo doing in one of my beds? And wearing _shoes_? What is wrong with both of you?”

Betty’s brows furrow like she’s offended on his behalf, but after a moment, her face smooths to calm as she faces him. “Didn’t you say something about a motorcycle?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“What do you say we take this party elsewhere?”

They scoot to the edge of the bed and slip past an embarrassed-looking maid and the gobsmacked hostess he assumes is Cheryl before holding hands. Whatever the rest of the day sends their way, they can tackle it together.

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, if only we all had our sanctuaries in awkward social and professional situations. Anyway, you know how I thrive on love in all forms so please send some to satellineinasupernova and leave a comment below to share that sweet goodness :) Also, no hate on Hemingway, I just felt it was appropriate for this scene and dealing with a certain prep hahaha


End file.
